


Every Other Freckle

by Bizu_Campeche



Series: A Horse with No Name [1]
Category: Cyberpunk 2077 (Video Game)
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Biting, Body Worship, Bratting, Communication, Compromise, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic Fluff, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, Eye Contact, F/M, Fluff and Smut, I cannot emphasize how awkward this situation is, Intimacy, It doesn't actually happen, Kink Exploration, Light breathplay, Masturbation, Misunderstandings, Mutual Masturbation, Porn Watching, Porn with Feelings, Post-Endgame, Praise Kink, Sexual Humor, Size Difference, Size Kink, Spanking, The Sun Ending, Vik Smirking, give and take, mentions of fisting, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 14:07:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30039840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bizu_Campeche/pseuds/Bizu_Campeche
Summary: V discovers something new about Vik. Or so she thinks.One-shot. Takes place after "Black Dog," but can be read as a stand-alone.*SEE TAGS* and author's note.
Relationships: V/Viktor Vector
Series: A Horse with No Name [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2209992
Comments: 10
Kudos: 47





	Every Other Freckle

**Author's Note:**

> Communication and enthusiastic consent. Get it, folks.
> 
> (CW: cringe-inducing awkwardness, spanking, light breathplay, brief moment of subspace, size kink, conversations about kink, conversations about fisting (not acted on), mentions of sexual body fluids, moments of humor, moments of insecurity, brief non-sexualized post-orgasmic crying, tooth-rotting fluff)

For the past week or so, the idea has been buzzing around in her head like a fly on synth-coke. It never would have entered her mind had it not been for that vidflick in Vik's pay-per-view history. A picture of normalcy, cuddling in bed in front of the TV at the end of a busy night, looking for one of his favorites to rewatch and share with V (who is decidedly not a movie person) when out pops the cringe-inducing title: _Maids of Satan: Fists of Fury._ Neither had said anything about it—1) she doesn't shame and 2) it shouldn't have surprised her considering the _Maids of Satan_ franchise porn poster by the couch in the back of his clinic.

Could it be the size difference? She wonders, taking in the picture of the grotesque man-beast railing an ecstatic naked nun. She's watched clips of the better sex scenes before: rough and violent with an exotic, custom Mr. Studd attachment to match the actor's scale implants. Massive vs. delicate.

Their own difference is obvious: Vik, easily over 6' of thick, honed muscle and V, over half a foot shorter and, despite having knocked half of Night City and Razor Hughes on their asses, comparatively smaller in frame.

God, how is she supposed to communicate between the client and the new blood she'd hired, when all she can think about is how someone can wear a person on their wrist? She's seen porn of it before, sure, and each clip has turned her stomach. And yet there persists the memory of that title behind her eyelids, like some seedy street hawker screaming to grab her attention.

She slips the Agent back in her pocket, stretches out languidly over the couch, and stares at the cracks on the moisture-pruned ceiling.

Has he ever done that with anyone? His ex-wife, maybe?

Wouldn't it hurt, though? It has to, right?

The syn-leather couch protests as she stands to take a peek from behind the dividing screen. Vik is absorbed in fixing his ripper tool again, twisting the screwdriver around in a steady rhythm, round and round. _Click-click-click_.

His fingers flex, testing it out.

God, that makes her throb every time.

If this thing resembles anything they already do in bed together, he'd be able to turn her into a puddle in no time. His fingers have decades of generous experience, experts at pinpointing the precise spots to heal, to hurt, to thoroughly pleasure.

She has to know.

She should ask. Just ask and get it over with. It's not that big of a deal. Nope. Not at all.

He looks up from his work at her when she approaches, the neon signs giving his green eyes an otherworldly glow, with the crooked smile she fell for three years ago.

Wait. Ask for what?

Oh, shit.

She hasn't thought this through.

What the fuck is she supposed to say? _‘Heya, Viky, ya ever shove your fist in someone's hole for fun? Want to?’_

"You alright, sweetheart?" he asks, eyebrow arched.

V swallows as if it would help cool the fire burning under the surface of her face. It doesn't. She's a big girl; he's asked her ex-partners, and now him, for exactly what she's wanted without the slightest sort of hesitation, so why now?

"Yeah. Uh, yeah. Think I'm done for the day."

"Headache again? Dizzy? Want me to walk you over?"

V shakes her head. "No, I'm just tired." She leans over, presses a kiss to his forehead. Tastes of salt. "See you at home."

"Mm-hm." He mentions an appointment he has in an hour, a RAM and OS upgrade, that should take no more than an hour and a half.

An hour and a half to find out what the hell all this was about. As soon as she gets home, she showers and plops herself in front of her comp. Time for some good old-fashioned research.

Over half of the results are links to _Fists of Fury._ The ones that are neither porn links nor supposed "lifestyle" magazines were niche forums with eye-straining color themes. Some users told stories about experiencing it and hating it the first several times, and those who decided it wasn't for them. Then there were those who thought it encouraged violence and abuse in relationships. Some said they did it to please their partner. Still, others mentioned the most intense orgasms they'd ever experienced: out-of-body experiences, emotional catharsis, squirting, bonding.

V leans in. Now, this is what the fuck she's talking about.

Would he go for it, though? It's not like she's asking him to cosplay as the red man in horns. But it's...different. And Vik is a structured kind of man: early morning jog, breakfast at Tom's, Spunky Monkey with his lunch, Broseph's with his dinner. Every single day. At the bar, two fingers of whiskey. Nor does she have any complaints about their sex life. He's amazing, observant, talented in so many ways, and has no problem letting her take control. And it's not like that bothers her. Vik is the weight to her helium balloon; he keeps her grounded and she keeps him afloat from monotony and she loves that about them. So then why does the idea of asking him to try this feel like she's asking him out for the very first time?

Sixty minutes left. She checks the date of purchase: June 22nd, 2077.

They'd known each other at that point.

The movie starts to play. A group of gorgeous, buxom nuns and shrine maidens unite to defeat an evil libido-feeding alien entity through the power of martial arts with the help of a powerful chrome cyberninja. Kicker is, they must strengthen themselves and rid themselves of any sexual desires. And what better way to do that together than with...

V groans.

She can't tell if she's angry or amused.

Exaggerated moans and wet sounds echo throughout the bedroom, but no matter how she feels about it, she can't tear her eyes away from the clusterfuck. What is it with Vik and shitty movies? And when did this turn into a celebrity musical?

She freezes at the shuffling of feet, snapping her attention to the source of the sound: a wide-eyed Vik.

She stares back.

He's not saying anything.

The climactic chorus of high-pitched moans is certainly not helping the situation.

Why is he not saying anything?

Would be a great time for Johnny to crack a joke about now. Fucking parasitic gonk. How bad are things that she suddenly misses him?

He clears his throat, scratches at the thinning spot on his crown.

"I, uh, thought you'd be home much later."

"Yeah. Uh, the guy didn't have the eddies for the..." He gestures vaguely to his temple, stutters. "The Sandevistan thing."

"Oh."

"Yep." He smacks his lips together, swings his arms by his side. "Gonna go shower." Before leaving, much to her relief, he adds, "Save some for me."

V sets the comp aside and falls back on the bed. She supposes this removes the random factor from the equation; she can just outright ask him about it when he gets out.

Maybe she should have asked him to watch this with her. Could have asked what exactly about it he liked, other than the obvious.

How many times has he watched this, touched himself to this? Long, even pumps of his fist, those pink lips of his parting in a blessed sigh, brows furrowed as he grows ever closer to the brink. The soft curses falling from his mouth as he strokes his length faster, harder.

Fuck.

Her fingers dip under the waistband of her heather gray sweatshorts, slide over the cleft of her mound to find herself delightfully slick already. A shiver runs through her body at the light touch of her fingers parting her lips, circling her clit.

Harder. Fucking harder.

She arches against the pillows behind her, thighs spreading out farther apart, body hungry, aching, begging for more as her fingers glide without resistance at the notion of his vein-corded appendages pulsing to his quickening heartbeat. In her mind, he tosses his head back, sighs, and so does she.

“Having fun?” He’s standing by the door, plush towel hanging low around his hips.

It takes all she has to push through the lust weighing on her eyelids, to make eye contact. “C’mere,” she says breathlessly.

The mattress bows next to her. A rough hand slides up her thigh. “Keep going. Let me see.”

“Oh, _fuck,”_ she whines, his voice shoving her ever closer to that edge. “Kiss me? Please?”

First her shoulder, residual heat and droplets from the shower quickly cooling, a contrast to the boiling current under her skin, then her neck and she can’t stop her eyes from rolling into the back of her head. The taste of his lips, textured and soft, and she’s in that lovely freefall where her legs shake closed and she wants to pull her hand away but he holds it there against her sex, an unspoken ' _Just a little more for me,_ until she sobs out and his grip releases her.

She hates that she cries every first round. She loves that after their very first encounter, he hasn’t asked, that he simply allows it to pass, lets her rest her forehead on his shoulder, holds her, soaks up her tears and all the fucked up things about her.

She loves him.

“Hey…”

“Hm?” His voice reverberates in his chest, soothing.

“I wanna try something.”

“Yeah?” He’s gently stroking soft circles on her back as she nuzzles against his neck, takes in the scent of their shampoo, their soap, the tang of his aftershave.

She’s glad he can’t see her face in this position, that she’s in his arms, safe, accepted.

“Have you ever…” Anxiety spreads out lead ribbons, tangles around her voice and limbs. What if it freaks him out?

“Have I ever...?” he echoes.

She fidgets against the trepidation, tries to shake herself free.

“Talk to me, sweetheart.”

She swallows the sandy feeling in her mouth, points at the paused screen with her lips. “Have you ever done, you know...that?”

When he doesn't reply immediately, she wants to tell him to forget it, that it was all a dumb joke. She would have stood, told him she needed a shower and a drink, maybe a walk but his hands go to hers, cradle them like she’s so precious and valuable, and that broken part of her insists she isn’t, that she doesn’t deserve this. There are only so many emotions she can take at the same time, and they’re loud and screaming over each other. This was a stupid idea.

“Uh...yeah,” he finally answers. He’s not looking at her, but his thumbs are caressing her pulse points. “Once or twice. Had a partner who was into it.”

Beams of relief peek through the storm, though she isn’t so sure it should be yet. Her throat works down a dry knot. “And?”

“And…” He shrugs. “That’s it.”

Her lips press in a fine line. She nods.

They weren’t together anymore. Was he that put off by the request?

“Hey, what’s going on?” He’s got his head tilted in that dog-like way, a penetrating gaze, his strangely comforting manner to let her know he’s listening.

This is stupid. If he wanted to break things off with her, he would have done so years ago.

Her tongue swipes against her lips, self-soothing rather than seductive. She takes a deep breath before she leaps in, hopes he catches her.

“Would you...ever want to? Again, I mean?”

She sees him look down at their hands, watches his Adam’s apple rise and fall. Those vernal sunflower eyes she’s come to adore flick up to meet hers.

“That what you want?” he asks, thick and even, a generous spread coating her uneasiness.

If his red-tipped ears are anything to go by, and by now she knows for a fact they are, he’s as flustered as she is. Sometimes she wishes he’d let her see that side of him a little more, outside of her teasing him in public, or when he’s bound by the wrists and she’s pushing him to the razor-thin fringes of pleasure only to deny him until he ekes out a whispered plea.

“Yeah,” she admits in a breath and then quickly adds, “if you’re comfortable with it.”

The distinct outline of his erection beneath the terrycloth towel gives her some hope he might be. Either way, he’s making her mouth water. She wants him inside, where her body can trace his every contour no matter where he is, anywhere he wants, as long as it’s him and they can share a heartbeat for a few seconds and fall asleep in each other’s arms, his lips on her forehead.

He returns his hands to his lap, standing off the bed.

This is a mistake. What has she done?

“Gimme a sec,” he reassures as he heads back to the bathroom. “Shaky hand.”

Oh. Right.

V sighs, sinks back into bed.

Should she take her clothes off? Does he want to do that himself? This feels a lot like their first time. She can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not.

She lifts her soft, old t-shirt over her head, swaps out her usual gold barbell nipple piercings with round carbon black shields made to match his plugs, and threads in a delicate pair with a halo of crystals in their place. Fitting, she thinks, considering the role she’s choosing to play tonight.

Vik returns with a towel and two water bottles under his right arm, left hand flexing in what she assumes is a newfound stability. From the look he gives her when he’s close enough to see, she immediately knows she’s made the right choice.

“You sure about this?” he asks, joining her in bed, kissing her bare shoulder.

“Yeah.”

He nods like he’s convincing himself.

“You don’t want to?”

“I want you hot and bothered. If this is gonna do it for you, then yes.”

Will it? A sound vacillating between a laugh and a sigh leaves her.

“It’s a lot of work. Takes a lot of patience to do it right.” Another kiss between her neck and her ear. “Think you can handle it?” he teases.

“What, you think I can’t?”

He gives her a playful smirk clad in well-deserved arrogance. He knows her too well. “I seem to recall us in the alley the other day because someone couldn’t wait to get home.”

“Can you blame me? ‘Sides, it was fun.”

“We live across the street.”

Okay, so sometimes she’s a little impatient.

Alright, a lot of the time.

“Traffic colors?” he asks, millimeters away from her lips.

She replies with a nod and breaches the gap.

A comfortable familiarity, a reassuring hand to hold onto while they venture into the unknown. Skilled licks of his tongue caress hers, make her head reel, giddy. The towel comes undone, the molten heat of his solid erection against her hand pulls them in a shared moan; his breath fans out over her cheek as his mouth traces its path away from hers, to her ear, whispering filthy-sweet nothings and dirty-lovely promises, down to her throat where her breath catches, where the sensation makes her follow the pressure of his hands against the small of her back and arch into his bare chest where she wishes there was nothing but the constellations of their freckles between them. Mapping out his body again will have to do until then. Fingertips trace over the long-memorized topography of his body, the solid, wispy planes of his chest, the narrow valley making its way through the subtle ripples of his abdomen softened with time, the hollow dip of his navel, the trail between the angular rise of his Adonis belt, leading to the place he needs her the most.

Her thumb brushes over the plush, weeping crown of his length, spreads his clear arousal over it. The muffled groan against the underside of her breast draws a satisfied smile over her face, even if she knows there’s only so much flexibility before they can no longer share the pleasure of touching and being touched in this position.

She pushes him back onto the bed, stalks her smaller frame over him, sits up until he’s snug between her lips, slipping so easily against her clit with every rocking motion.

“Shit, sweetheart.” Pressing fingers bite into the ample flesh of her hips.

She hums, shutting herself off to anything else but the sensations he communicates, the sound of his breathing hitching, the soft moans he muffles between pressed lips she wishes he’d free for her to absorb, to take with her to the grave.

He parts his mouth and props himself on his elbows. The glint of a hungry predator holding back smolders in his eyes, though it could just be the golden glow of the lamp.

She can wait. She’ll show him.

She gives him a rough shove that breaks him into a good-humored chuckle, kneels between his thighs to shower him in reverent kisses the way he deserves until his arms give out and the muscles over his belly twitch at every touch.

“You’re fuckin’ gorgeous, Viktor.”

He snorts, but the flush spreading down his neck and over his chest confesses a less dismissive story. In lieu of words, he strokes her jawline as she descends in a slow creep, taking her time to graze her teeth over his nipples so that she can feel his length twitch against her belly, before moving further south.

“Wasn’t tonight— _oh, fuck—_ about you?”

V nips at the skin below his navel, earning a restrained buck of his narrow hips where her name is tattooed. “Wanna see how wet I am right now?”

_“Jesus…”_

“Ronnie,” she corrects, and he laughs.

Words die on his tongue the moment her mouth plunges down on him, scented of her. He threads one set of fingers through his thick black hair, the other sweeping over her short, freshly washed coils. She’s suddenly thankful she forgot her wave cap after her shower. Stiffening her tongue on her way up with the realized intention of brushing her tongue piercing over his pronounced ridge, she swirls it over his glans until he swears again and his fingers hesitate and strain against her scalp.

“It’s alright,” she whispers against the soft-spun silk of his skin.

A flicker of desire-blown green, and he slowly pushes down on her head, brows furrowing together until he struggles to keep the eye-contact he knows drives her wild. Gentle and rhythmic until it isn’t, and she loves it even when it makes her gag around him and her eyes water. Two taps on his thigh when he eases up, so considerate, and he knows to continue.

“Not gonna last long like this,” he croaks out.

Another two taps.

They’ve got all night.

But right now, she wants it.

She needs it.

His breath snags on a strangled moan, his cheeks tinted in a rosy flush, face twisted in the ecstasy of his release, excess dripping down the sides of her mouth until she can lap him clean, until he hisses from overstimulation.

“Yellow,” he croaks out, tapping at her shoulder four times, and she pulls away. Worshipping him like this is nowhere near enough to satisfy her needs, so she shifts her attention to the insides of his thighs instead. “Gimme a…”

A minute to recoup, for his lungs to catch up to his galloping pulse.

“You’re real good at that,” he says.

“I try, _papi.”_

He chuffs at the pet name. She’s told him the context is different, unless he doesn’t want it to be, but he’s made it clear he prefers the more affectionate connotation.

Vik inhales, deep, arching his back and extending out his well-defined arms in a delicious stretch, his abdomen hollowing out below his rib cage so that she can’t resist tickling at his sides until he squirms away.

“Gonna get yourself kneed in the face if you keep that up.”

“Worth it,” she replies but relents. Not even her Kerenzikov is a match for his reflexes.

He sits up groggily, scrubs his palm over his face, and gestures to her soaked shorts. “Off.”

She bites her bottom lip if only to make him stare. “Make me.”

The game begins with that quirk of his eyebrow, shooting a current of adrenaline through to her nerve endings. He sits still, that sharp gleam in his stare.

Oh, she’s gonna get it.

In a blur, a rough shove thrusts the side of her face into the mattress, a brusque clutch to her wrist pins it to her back under the heat of his body. “Think I won’t, kid?”

Of course, he will. Doesn’t stop the mocking laugh from spilling into the mattress as she shifts her hips and legs around to match how he’s arranged her. “Don’t have it in you, old man.” His teeth bite bright into the middle of her shoulder and change her tone at whiplash speed, make her whine and writhe beneath him. Mouth and tongue soothe the soon-to-be bruise, repeat the process when he nips at the other, and again with each tiny wound he leaves over her back, the amber brown column of her neck. _“Fuck_ … Please.”

“Please, what?”

Her legs kick out underneath him in a faked little tantrum. With a few twists of her lithe body, she could technically slip from his grasp without much effort, one advantage she has over his bulky mass. If she wanted to, that is.

“Please. What,” he repeats, threatening tension in his question.

“Urgh... Please take them off for me.”

The sting of a slap to her ass rips a gasp from her lungs, makes her aware of the pressure the seam on her shorts exert against her needy slit, of the moisture starting to seep over the joints of her thighs. Her hips chase the bit of friction, until he notices, smacks her ass again.

“Try that again, princess.”

What he wants to hear sits on her tongue, bitten back

But the next slap tears it away from her.

“Please, Sir,” she sobs.

Vik growls, but she can hear the tone of smugness behind it. His nails scrape over her hips as he yanks down at the waistband of her shorts. She raises them up for him to tear them off her, exaggerating the curve of her ass for him. The chuckle that thunders forth suggests he’s pleased she chose to skip out on underwear.

Her shorts land in front of her, an obvious wet spot at the center seam.

“Ruined those shorts, sweetheart.”

“Then fuck me already!”

A pause. Anticipation.

It lands in a searing strike of his hand, branding onto her skin.

And another, when she doesn’t give in.

“C’mon. Use your words.”

Quivering through puffs of air, she utters, “Fuck. You.” The next impact makes her scream and dig her nails into the black and gold comforter.

“Verónica.” A warning. A threat. A thrill.

It’s the first semblance of tacked-on identity she ever received, but from his lips, it feels as if she were loved from the start, that the beginning of her existence was not the afterthought insinuated from her namelessness, not a naive teenaged addict’s mistake. It’s as if she can let herself believe that he loves her, that she’s worthy of being loved, and that it’s not all some fever dream.

“Vik,” she whispers, and his expression softens to match. “Please touch me.”

Her eyelids flutter shut at the sweet kiss over her temple, her cheek; she cranes her neck to catch his mouth with hers, smiles when he releases her wrist to grab her ass, and lifts her hips again accordingly. The slick caress of his fingers over her slit draws a gasp.

“Damn. You get this wet just for me?”

She nods, head cloudy and focused on his touch. The tiny ray of clarity compels her to say what he loves to hear. “Only for you.”

Fore- and ring finger part her sensitive labia, her reward a featherlight caress of his middle finger’s knuckle against her clit. She bites back a moan of relief as he turns his hand and entertains her need with his fingertips, shamelessly grinding into his touch.

Until he draws his hand back, leaves her to whine and mourn the loss of his touch.

“Turn over for me.” It’s low and tender, a request.

Her arms lack their usual strength, but she manages to position herself on her back, meet his feverish gaze, let her legs part, and spread where he can fit his body between them.

He starts again propped up on one arm, raining kisses over her lips, down her throat. His palm drapes over the base of her neck, where she knows he can crush her windpipe if he were so inclined to, but it eventually journeys down the center of her breasts. He palms one roughly, traces circles with his thumb over her nipple and its piercing, a gentle tug to the skin that forces a hiss through her teeth. His mouth mimics the pattern over her left one; his tongue, hot and wet, flicks at the metal hard enough to make her clench. It’s short-lived as he moves on, under her breast, over oft-neglected flesh, over her ribs, over the tribal symbols of her heritage tattooed on her abdomen, the ornate calligraphy of his name embedded just below her navel to match his.

“You’re perfect,” he says in between worshipful kisses. “So fucking perfect.”

The little voice in her head demands she dismiss it, reject it. It stabs into her chest and prickles at the inside of her nostrils. He raises his head, pausing, and she ventures he’s noticed. It’s momentary, and she’s learned to grapple it to submission, but it’s always there. Who’s to say he isn’t with her out of pity, because he feels responsible for her because she won’t live as long as most people? That Alt never released her and this is all some sort of fucked up simulation to keep her tame? No, that last one is probably ridiculous, she realizes. The former, however, is a fear that’s been haunting the confines of her mind since that foggy morning at Tom’s Diner, after they’d decided to move past the tension between them into something concrete.

He spreads her open again, keenly focused on the sight set before him. “So beautiful.”

She tosses her arm over her face if only to hide how bashful he was making her. Times like these she's grateful her blushing blends into her brown skin.

“None of that, now. Lemme see you.”

She peeks through the crevice of light to notice him looking up at her, mouth hovering a few inches over her with that long-suffering expectation. He isn’t going to give her what she wants, not unless she complies.

So, she concedes.

And ever the generous lover, he rewards her, tracing a deliberate stripe against her heat, and it earns him a shiver of her body, a whimper when he draws her clit into his mouth, pushes back with his tongue. Give and take, action and reaction, push and pull. They become a primal force of nature, a complete circuit in a deadly-lovely current, pure energy snapping and sizzling with the ambivalent promise of creation, or destruction.

A single digit slips inside her without the faintest resistance and she curses, bucks her hips up hard enough that he has to pin her down with his massive forearm.

“Easy…”

Pushing up, sliding, and curling against her g-spot, only to ease up and gently push down on her lower wall whenever her breathing quickens. It takes a couple of moments of fuming frustration before she can figure out what he’s doing.

He gifts her with another of his thick fingers. Hers tangle in his hair as she draws her legs up over his shoulders, seeking more friction. He takes one of her delicate lips in his, making a show to give a gentle tug before diving back in.

“Just like that.” She can barely recognize the subdued timbre of her voice, the desperate wail when the pressure becomes more intense at a third, his knuckles bruising at her joints. “Oh, God, pleasepleaseplease… _fuck!”_

“Look at me, sweetheart.”

She can barely register the filthy wet sounds her body makes under the twisting and curling of his fingers, the hot, liquid pressure building just behind her clit, when she falls with a scream, drowning in bliss under each movement, every rapid flick of his tongue until it’s too much, way too much and her thighs clamp around his head.

Through the post-orgasm euphoria fogging the edges of her vision, he untangles her legs from around him, gets up to do...something. Every muscle in her body has turned to jelly, her mind to an equally nonsensical mush. There’s no critic in her head. There’s no dread of the future, nor fear of being discarded. There’s only now and the spring green of his eyes, the tilt of his smile.

He offers something to her lips. Something cool washes into her mouth, soothes the crumbly dryness in her throat. He says something. She doesn’t quite pick up what. Doesn’t matter. Sounds so pretty, cozy and warm and large like her favorite t-shirt.

“Color?” she hears him ask.

His fingers lift her jaw at her lack of response. He asks again.

When her vision shifts back into focus, she can see the worry creasing over his forehead, in between his brows, crinkling at the old scar over the bridge of his nose.

She shakes the fuzz from her head. “Green,” she answers, sitting up.

“Then, what’s your name?”

She blinks. Worry notwithstanding, he knows better than to ask her to say it out loud. She sneers at him. _“No.”_

Vik chuckles, places a tender kiss on her forehead. “There we go.”

The plastic bottle crackles as she squeezes the rest of the water into her mouth. So good. It sinks into the wastebasket with a swish. Everything is so good. He’s so good. The faint shine covering the lower half of his face is proof enough, with the dark spot on the sheets beneath her as a solid backup.

The bed dips down with his weight, jostles as he lays himself back down, tucking his arm behind his head because the fucker knows she’s going to stare at the contours of his muscles. He pulls her down next to him, where she’s tucked safe and warm in the intimate nook of his embrace.

“Still doing this?”

Oh.

Right.

This all started with…

Her nails scratch lightly over the hairs covering his chest. She’d be fine if things ended here. She’s completely relaxed—euphoric, even. Then again, she can’t fathom going through the shame of asking to give this a try again.

“Yeah. You okay?”

He hums. “Just give my wrist a sec.”

She takes it, brings it close, kisses it. "If you're hurting, we—"

"Ah, I'm fine. Just a little numb." Bullshit. She's not buying it. "So, uh...what brought this on?" he asks.

V can feel the blood drain from her face. _'I was looking through your history_ ,' sounds worse now that it's a potential answer.

Shit, how does she tell him?

"'Member the other day we were looking through your watched list?" she starts.

"Yeah."

She sighs. "It was in your history."

His face pinches in an expression she can't name. Is he mad? Oh, God. He's mad.

"Look, I'm sorry. I just thought I could see what the big—"

"No, no." He shakes his head. "That was…" He scoffs, tosses his head back onto the pillow. "I let Jackie spend one night at the clinic. One night. And he goes and buys this…This… Anyway, he paid me back."

It was Jackie.

Jackie had been into this.

Not Vik.

Not the man beside her.

V can't help but laugh. And laugh. Jackie Welles, still being a pain in the ass even beyond the grave. "I thought...I mean, I got curious because I thought you…"

"Nah. Read the reviews. Doesn't do the original justice."

It's a classic, or so she's heard. "It's _porn._ Not much substance there."

"Eh. Get back to me after we've watched it."

V twists around, amused at the idea of watching something so raw together, and rests her chin on his chest.

"What is it about it that you like?" Sliding a hand now to grab him, she finds him firm at attention again. "That good, huh?"

He exhales sharply, closing his eyes as he gives in to her touch.

"It's the size, isn't it?"

Much to her satisfaction, the twitch in her hand confirms it. She's gotta see it, see him.

"Like something so huge stretching into a tight little pussy…"

Instead he surprises her and grabs her by the jaw, crushes his mouth against hers in an open kiss. He has this talent of stealing the air from her lungs with a look, a smile, a tilt of his head or the low grow of his voice, and he achieves it whenever his large hand slides down and presses against the sides of her throat. Something they've toyed with before, but for a second she believes if she eggs him on, he'll squeeze down until the edges of her vision turn a fuzzy black.

"Like watching her tiny hole get fucking wrecked, huh?"

Teeth nip at her bottom lip. His pulse thrums under her attentive fingers, quickening with each of her quips.

"That why you agreed to fist fuck me? You wanted to tear my pussy up?"

His dick would feel so good inside of her right now, pulsating and hot, stretching her walls out to perfectly fit around every ridge and vein.

"Shit," she sighs, giving in. He wins. She _is_ impatient. "I need you to fucking wreck me."

He shoves her off. "On your hands and knees."

Fuck, the authoritative tone he uses does something absolutely filthy to her, enough for her to grow tired of this brat display and do as he asks. She needs him inside. Now.

He licks at his fingers. She wonders if they still taste like her.

"Vik, please…"

The gentle, probing touch of his fingers is nowhere near enough to sate her craving for him, until he replaces them, joins her in a cry of relief as he pushes the thick head of his length in slowly, stretching her until it burns. But she needs it, needs it to hurt, needs to remember him with each step she takes in the morning.

The first thrust slams against her cervix, rips a silent scream from her. She braces herself for the clear, bright pain to come with the next.

He grunts, soothes the welts on her hips. "Relax for me. Easy."

She'd be able to pick his voice out from the din of a crowd, from the cacophonous noise crowding her head: she's grateful for it, feels the tension start to dissipate.

"Good girl," he coos, the gentleness incongruous to the deep, punishing strokes that have her seeing stars. The pain eases with each snap of his hips, melts away into a pleasure that has her mouth falling open and her eyes rolling back. She's going to gush, she can feel the heat of it rising, starting to trickle out and drip off her cleft with the first flutters of her pussy.

He must have sensed it since he pulls out and rolls her over as if she weighed next to nothing. He grabs her ass and lifts her legs over his broad shoulders before plunging back in, and she cries out. He's impossibly deep, nearly folding her body in half as he holds her up with the mere strength of his back and shoulders.

It's almost but not enough.

Words will no longer form on her tongue. There is only the urgent need for an orgasm to split her in half.

Puffs of labored breaths cool the sheen of sweat over her skin, over his. She can no longer tell if it's her pulse inside her or his or maybe both.

She claws at his triceps, white-hot light dawning over her eyes in a searing pleasure that licks through her veins and makes her body bow taut underneath him, makes her toes curl and her throat raw from screaming out senseless prayers to him as he ruts into her dripping body.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he says from somewhere beyond the haze.

There's a hint of reverence and affection in the way he gazes down at her, mouth parted as he starts to throb inside. His lips peel back in a snarl as his hips start to stutter off-rhythm. He drops his head down, but she reaches up, lifts it enough so she can watch the sweet agony twist his face in gorgeous expressions reserved just for her. The muscles around his neck strain, veins bulging as he holds back a moan.

She squeezes her muscles around his dick and drags a different sound from his throat instead.

Her legs melt away from him, onto the mattress. He rolls them both over, raises her leg across his waist so that she's next to him and he's still nestled within her. Vik's cum is wet and sticky on her thighs, dribbling out from where they're joined and she can't be bothered to care to clean herself up... The soft thump of his heart begins to slow into a lulling rhythm, the soft whoosh of his breathing becoming even, steady.

"Still want to try that?" he asks, grazing his fingertips over the welts he'd made on her thigh.

She smiles, shakes her head, eyes groggy. If it isn't something he's into, it isn't that appealing. "Nah. Consider me thoroughly wrecked."

He laughs through his nose.

"I love ya, kid."

"Yeah. I love you too, old man."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for pushing through the awkwardness!
> 
> Special thanks to all the bad influences and enablers at Lizzie's and Vik's Clinic; credits to CarbonQuellist for the "Viktor topography" idea.


End file.
